


Left for the Fowls

by zombified_queer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Roadside surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21961693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: In the salt of the sea, the last of Will's dragon-killing strength leaves him. But he trusts the familiar hands of Hannibal Lecter in the dark, frigid ocean.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 134
Collections: 2019 Eat The Rude Secret Santa





	Left for the Fowls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TubularFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TubularFox/gifts).



The sea stings in all their wounds.

Whatever strength Will reserved for dragon-slaying is gone, drained out of him. All he can do is shiver and cling to Hannibal as dead weight. The sea is dark and cold. Slowly, Will feels himself shutting off, the frigid water enticing him to sleep through all his aches and pains.

But hands drag him along, the rocking of the waves push Will up on a rocky shore. To breathe aches. His face stings, throbbing hotly. And his shoulder hurts. 

"Will?"

Will's cheek finds a place that is warm against Hannibal. The saltwater soaked into the wool makes Will's cuts start with a new sting. He knows he's wetting Hannibal's sweater with a fresh gout of blood. But here, against a breathing chest, Will finds himself to be safe.

"Can you walk?"

Will shakes his head. Hannibal hisses, but gets up. He does not leave Will for long.

It is a half-carry and half-drag and Will thinks it takes miles to get back to Hannibal's car. Hannibal helps Will into the passenger seat, the door left open.

"Facial wounds bleed more than others," Hannibal says, cupping Will's face. Just like that night in the kitchen. But Hannibal offers Will the keys to the car. "Start the heater. I'll get a blanket."

"You're just as injured," Will says. "He tried to kill you."

"And you tried to kill us both."

Hannibal leaves, busying himself with the trunk. Will reaches over, keys in the ignition. The car starts with so much ease. And Will could simply slide over, into the driver's seat, throw it into reverse—

But things are different now.

"Will. I want you to stare straight ahead." 

Complying is easy, easier than getting away. Will feels every tremble of his body, little betrayals. There's a sharp prick, the pull of thread. The first suture.

"I hope you're wearing gloves," Will says once it's tied off.

"Do you mistrust me that badly, Will?"

Another pinprick, the draw of thread, the click of metal on metal. 

Once the second suture is secure, Will asks, "Is here the best place?"

"Would it be less suspicious if we arrived home with open wounds?" Hannibal prepares another suture, slowly knitting Will's face back together. "Besides, if I leave it open, there's a chance you might bleed to death."

"Wolf Trap is quiet and secluded," Will points out, staring at the soft glow of the house. Their first kill. "We could have a meal before we fly off like shrikes for the winter."

Hannibal makes a small, choked noise. A laugh. Will finds it easier to hold still knowing he's made Doctor Hannibal Lecter, Chesapeake Ripper, laugh. The sutures hardly even sting.

Will stares straight ahead, at the house. Who will turn out the lights? How long will it be before Dolarhyde is moved? How much will be left over for the crime scene cleaners? There’s no question about eating him. 

The final suture in place, Will snaps out of his thoughts. He glances at Hannibal, to confirm this is the last suture. He's answered by the press of gauze and adhesive, Hannibal being as gentle as he can.

"You're injured too," Will points out. "Let me—"

"There's only one pair of gloves," Hannibal informs him. The tools and gloves go into a small container for biohazards. "I can still drive us home."

"Where is home, Hannibal?"

Hannibal doesn't answer Will. 

Instead, he looks at Will for permission before removing Will's sweater. The wound is deep, still bleeding. Hannibal sutures it. Will looks away, watching how still the house is, how warm it looks from the outside. 

No one would know how much blood is spilled on the floor.

"The lights are timed," Hannibal assures Will, finishing the last stitch and bandaging Will's shoulder. "With no movement, they'll turn off on their own."

"You planned for this."

Hannibal brushes a stray curl out of Will's face. The look on his face tells Will that Hannibal planned for none of this. Hannibal drapes the blanket around Will's shoulders, which helps chase away the chill, just slightly. It's better than nothing. Hannibal puts the first aid kit in its place and staggers around the car, ignoring the wound in his own abdomen.

Will doesn't sleep. It's unspoken he shouldn't nod off, just in case his injuries are grave. So he watches the road. The night is still, uncannily so. He knows that predators in the area has the power to silence and entire forest, each animal tensed, breaths held. 

Next to him, Hannibal wheezes as he drives, each breath agony.

Will reaches a hand up, touches the gauze. He could sew Hannibal's wounds. He's replaced sutures when the pack had sutures break. 

"Hannibal?"

"Will."

"You have a first aid kid at home, don't you?"

Hannibal turns the car smoothly onto a dark street. "It becomes a necessity."

"Let me take care of you, for once."

Hannibal pulls into the driveway of a townhouse Will does not recognize but understands. A hideout. Somewhere quiet, unassuming. A place to rest and recover.

"What do you see, Will?"

"There's a deep freezer in the basement, though it's running low by now. You haven't hunted like you usually do. You're not preparing for a party." Will turns, fixing Hannibal with a stare. "You want an intimate dinner. The two of us." He pauses. "Or, you hoped it would be the two of us."

"Will, tell me. If one of us had died tonight, what would have happened?"

"What you would have done?"

Hannibal nods, removing the key from the ignition but making no move to get out of the car. 

"In the event I died, you would have been able to kill Dolarhyde. He would've bit you, leaving you scarred. And you would come here, stitch yourself up and make for Europe."

"Where?"

Will meets Hannibal's gaze. Warm. Fond.

"Lithuania. It's where that accent is from, isn't it?"

"You know me too well," Hannibal says. "You've seen too deeply into me."

"Hannibal, let's go inside."

Will gets out of the car first. He helps Hannibal out, letting Hannibal lean on him. Hannibal's sweater is stained with so much of their blood. Something in Will's mind reminds him Dolarhyde's blood is there too, seeping into the wool fibers. 

Hannibal's hands shake as he unlocks the door into the small home. Will takes the keys, unprompted and emboldened. The lock gives way and the door swings open to a dark house. Neither of them make a move to turn on any lights. 

"Will. You'll need to change."

"You too," Will says. 

Hannibal pulls away, stripping. Even like this, he's composed. Graceful, in a way. Under the stained sweater is an undershirt, tinged a dark maroon. 

Will watches, half-undressed, studying the wound in Hannibal's abdomen. It's deep and still oozing darkly. Will can smell it. Iron. 

"The first aid—"

"Bathroom." Hannibal gestures. 

Will nods. Hannibal's being vague. Fatigue. But Will finds the bathroom in this new layout. He grabs a towel and the black leather bag. It rattles, like a doctor's bag from some earlier time. It's very Hannibal.

When Will returns, Hannibal's mostly undressed and reclining on the sofa. 

"Do you think anything's punctured?" Will asks, draping the towel around Hannibal's shoulders. "Or should I suture?"

"Suture," Hannibal instructs. "He missed anything vital."

Will stares up, into Hannibal's eyes, and taking a bit of Hannibal into himself. Only a fraction of that doctor he really saw for the first time in the back of the ambulance. Nothing more.

And he opens the case, slipping on gloves. Will takes the tools, threads the needle, and examines the wound. Up close, Will can see the angry red bruises turning dark, lacerations minor and already scabbed over. 

Hannibal seems to nod off while Will sutures the wound closed, skin held tight. For a moment, he worries.

"Hannibal, It's late. You should rest," Will says. "Here, I'll help you up."

"No."

"Hannibal." Will is not asking. "You're hurt. You're tired. You and I just killed a man and didn't even dignify him as fit for consumption."

"You've taken the brunt of it."

Will, to be vindictive and prove his point, presses on one of the deeper bruises. Hannibal's eyes widen as he inhales through clenched teeth.

"There's no reason to act like you're not hurting," Will says. "You're exhausted. You couldn't unlock the door. Let me help you."

"You're not asking to take me to bed."

Will licks his lips. He shakes his head. "No. I'm not."

Hannibal cups the uninjured side of Will's face with a cold hand. Will leans into the touch, as if he could warm Hannibal with just this small contact. For a moment, they say nothing. 

Will gets up. He helps Hannibal up off the couch. Through the dark, they find the bedroom. Will notes the single bed, wide enough for two, and opts to say nothing. This is Hannibal’s design. 

Hannibal dresses for bed in silence. He lays out a set of sleepwear for Will, who dresses knowing Hannibal is watching. But there's no fear in being watched. 

In bed, Hannibal fits neatly at Will's side. Before Hannibal falls into the depths of sleep, he presses his lips to the corner of Will's mouth. He tastes of blood. Will wouldn't have it other way.

Will watches Hannibal sleep and aches.


End file.
